


Even Time Lords...

by Nehszriah



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Nehs wrote prawns, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Prompt Fic, Smut, Touch Telepathy, though no telepathic sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-21
Updated: 2016-08-21
Packaged: 2018-08-10 01:49:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7825483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nehszriah/pseuds/Nehszriah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From a tumblr prompt: Clara finds twelves sketch book and out of curiosity decides to flip through some pages to find its full of sketches of her. (Maybe he also wrote some things he wants to say to her, but doesn't have the nerve to say to her face?)</p><p>Turned into an excuse to write them getting it on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Even Time Lords...

Clara noticed that the Doctor carried two small books with him in an inner jacket pocket. One he merely jotted down notes, used to throw at heads filled with pudding, that sort of thing. The other one was special and very rarely was brought out unless the adventure they were on was more of a break than anything else. It would be funny, Clara thought, that the longest times he actually sat still without it involving her sitting on his lap was when they were walking through a space-garden and he saw a particularly gorgeous flower, or a landscape caught his eye. She’d sit next to him on a bench or in the dirt or wherever it was he plopped down and enjoy the scenery. Sometimes she’d even glance over to what he was sketching, and it was generally pretty marvelous.

That was how she found the two of them one day, on the recovery from some excitement that nearly killed them both, reclined against a grassy hillside that was warm and soft in the late-evening hour. He was hunched over his sketchbook, capturing the mountainside lake in graphite and paper, while she was spread out on their blanket with a novel of her own. Just as she was contemplating the validity of creating a niche in the curriculum for the book, Clara saw that the Doctor placed his pencil between the sketchbook pages to hold his place and rubbed his eyes.

“Even Time Lords get eyestrain, huh?” she said. He put the book between them and laid down, stretching his limbs out beyond the confines of the blanket.

“A minor inconvenience,” he shrugged. The Doctor put his hands behind his head as he stared up at the sky, staring at the clouds. “It’s nice here, yeah?”

“Yeah…?”

“Just checking—I purposefully didn’t concentrate on those brain functions while regenerating last. It’s not like nice has done me a lot of good lately.”

“Now that’s not true,” she teased. Clara scooted across the blanket until she had the sketchbook in her lap and the Time Lord’s chest as her pillow. “I like to think you have a different _version_ of nice this time around; nothing wrong with that.”

“That’s a kind way of looking at it,” he shrugged. He brought his one arm down and wrapped it around Clara, holding her at the waist, which unconsciously prompted her to press herself into his side a bit more. They’d been doing a lot more of that sort of thing as of late: sitting very close with the occasional draped limb or two. He couldn’t quite recall when it began, but it wasn’t exactly something that he minded either. Clara was the perfect size for such a thing, easily tucked away under his arm or chin, sitting or lying so close that all he could smell was her perfume and shampoo. It made the touching better, that was for sure. He closed his eyes and let the aroma of her fill his senses.

“Doctor? What’s this?”

He opened his eyes and noticed that Clara had picked up his sketchbook and was flipping through it, having stopped on a drawing of her. She had been marking papers that day, making it so that she sat incredibly still and enabled him to pick up on intense detail. Instead of a bookcase in the TARDIS library behind her, however, there was a series of interconnected circular glyphs resting just past her head and shoulders.

“It’s you—I asked if I could, remember?”

“Well yeah, but I didn’t realize you wanted to give me a halo chain like it’s a church painting… or some Art Nouveau poster now that I look at it…”

“I only drew what I saw,” he claimed. The Doctor then watched as she continued through the book, coming upon an unsolicited sketch. It was of her laughing, similar glyphs behind her, though the fact she was clearly in-motion made it seem as though the entire thing should have been impossible.

“Now what’s your excuse for this?” she snarked.

“A good memory.” He could feel blood rushing to his face and he attempted to hide his face behind her head, though Clara had other ideas. She sat up and looked him dead in the eyes.

“What do they say?”

“Hmm…? What does who say?”

“Not _who_ , but _what_ ; what do these circles mean?” She pointed at the sketch and pursed her lips tightly. “They mean something—I know they do.”

“It’s… complicated,” he frowned. The Doctor sat up and took the book back, although he didn’t close it. “High Gallifreyan writing isn’t just words, but emotions too. I guess if you want to put it into simpler terms: it’s pretty difficult to write an interpretive piece in it.”

“Thoughts _and_ emotions?” she nodded, impressed. Clara leaned back into him and snuggled in, noticing the chill that was beginning to settle in the air. “Can you tell me?”

Not a word.

“Doctor?”

“It’s not… it’s not something easily said.”

Oh.

“Let me in then?” she asked gently. The Doctor adverted his gaze for a moment before gently placing his forehead against hers.

“Ready?”

“Yeah.”

Opening up his mind to Clara’s, the Doctor bared himself to her. She knew he was carefully guarded—there was no way he wasn’t after all he’d been through—but the amount of emotion that washed over her was simply described as overwhelming. It truly was difficult to describe, but it was still perfectly understood. She broke into sobs, prompting him to lean back to make sure she was alright.

His fingers only barely brushed her cheeks before she lunged at him, kissing him roughly on the mouth. Not resisting, the Doctor fell back onto the blanket and Clara do as she pleased. She scraped her tongue against his teeth as she kissed him; her hands slid underneath his t-shirt, which allowed her fingernails to leave long, thin, scratch-like welts along his chest as she ground her hips into his.

“You should have told me,” she breathed against his lips. He leaned up long enough to shed his hoodie, which allowed her to peel both his jumper and t-shirt off at once.

“Our relationship is more than just primitive desires, Clara—”

“…but it could have _incorporated them_ before now too, you know,” she teased. She giggled in approval as she felt his hands rest on her thighs, ghosting over the leggings that were keeping him from her skin. “You don’t need to pine from arm’s length; don’t Time Lords have _desires_ too?”

“I think you know the answer to that already,” he replied.

A bit of fumbling and he was able to pull down her leggings and knickers, getting rid of them both at once. Clara was flexible enough to get herself out of her dress without any help with either the back zip or twisting about to lift it over her head, which turned the Doctor on more than he would ever admit. He relieved her of her shirt and bra while she concentrated on his trousers and pants. The very second they were both naked, Clara grabbed onto the Doctor and sank down onto him, both already turned on enough to make it a smooth and simple action.

Even the simplest of actions, however, can gain the largest reactions, and the Doctor exemplified it when he shuddered as he felt himself slide into Clara. His eyes wrenched shut and it felt as though his entire body were shutting down. He tried reaching up to touch her face and bring her down for a kiss, yet his arms felt so heavy that all he could do was bend at the elbows to touch her waist.

“Cla…” he wheezed. “I… I…”

She shushed him, placing a finger to his lips. Leaning forward, she kissed him gently, before returning to her position. She moved her hips slowly, making herself ache in the process, but it was worth it gazing down on his face and seeing an expression even she was rarely privy to. All his concentration and brain power was being diverted to experiencing her. A man with so many layers to his thought processes, so much to his very being, and all he could focus on was _her_.

Picking up the pace, she took delight in watching him unravel. He held onto her hips so tightly his nails began to dig into her skin, and whatever he was gasping, the TARDIS was refusing to translate, leaving it a bunch of nonsense words and gibberish syllables. She held on as long as she could until her own switch turned off, allowing her to simply go on automatic as she shagged her sticky-built alien until he cried out her name into the twilight, the tendons in his neck bulging and body acting as one large, frayed nerve end. He pulsed into her, setting her over the edge. Riding the last vestiges of their orgasms, they collapsed into one another, their limbs entwining as they snuggled together on the blanket.

“I didn’t realize you were so willing to jump right into it,” he murmured behind her ear. The Doctor pulled Clara in a bit closer so he could take the edge of the blanket and wrap it over her tiny frame. “It wasn’t something that needed to happen right away.”

“Yes it did, you berk,” she chuckled. Clara kissed the starting point of one of the welts on his chest, seeing how pink and raw it was becoming. “Hope I didn’t do too much damage.”

“You, Clara Oswald? Never,” he assured. Leaving a kiss on her cheekbone, the Doctor slid down the blanket and adjusted until he could pull some of the fabric over himself as well.

Clara then fell asleep, feeling very attended-to and comfortable, holding her Time Lord in her arms. Soon as she felt like she closed her eyes, she woke up again to the Doctor carrying her into the TARDIS. He had put his trousers and t-shirt back on, though she was a bundled mess of clothes and blanket and books… something that she didn’t necessarily mind.

“No more shagging on the hillside?” she teased. A kiss pressed into her hair as the TARDIS came into view, wheezing at the time travelers in irritation.

“I’d rather your bed—it’s a bit more comfortable than rocks and twigs poking into your back, wouldn’t you agree?”

Yeah… yeah, she did.


End file.
